Free Help! Somebody Get Me Out of Fourth Grade by Henry Winkler Page A

lucky.”
    â€œWhy are you lucky?” I snapped. I could feel that lump moving from my throat to the back of my eyes.
    I will not cry.
    â€œFirst of all, fourth-graders get a longer recess than fifth-graders,” said Luke. “And recess is my favorite subject next to lunch.”
    Oh, great. I’m going to have to sit next to this genius all next year.
    â€œAnd second of all, I’m not going to have any homework for a whole year.” Luke had a big smile on his face. “I just have to change the dates on this year’s homework and, you know, like I’m done. Cool, huh?”
    That did it. I took off down the stairs, and I didn’t stop.
    Two at a time. Three at a time.
    Watch me, Principal Love! I can go as fast as I want.
    You can’t hold me back!
    When I reached the front door of the school, I pushed it open and bolted out into the fresh air. The tears were just forming on my eyeballs. Everything was all blurry, but I could make out a bright red object standing in front of the school. It looked like a giant strawberry. I ran toward it, slammed into it as hard as I could, and buried my head.
    Then the tears came.

CHAPTER 16
    â€œHEY, WHAT’S WRONG, Hankie?” Papa Pete asked me, rubbing my head as I buried it in the strawberry red jogging suit he always wore to pick me up.
    â€œIt stinks,” I said, wiping my tears and my runny nose on his sweatshirt. I hate to confess that I wiped my nose on his shirt, but it’s true, and I wouldn’t lie to you, not even when it concerns snot.
    â€œWhat stinks?” Papa Pete asked. “My jogging suit? Sorry, Hankie, I just came from bowling.”
    â€œNo, school stinks,” I said. “Fourth grade stinks. And now I have to do it all over, and it’s going to stink even more.”
    â€œWho said you have to do fourth grade over again?” Papa Pete asked, reaching into his pocket and handing me his big plaid handkerchief.
    â€œNo one . . . yet,” I said. “But they’re going to say that.”
    â€œBut they haven’t said it yet—whoever they are?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen there’s nothing to worry about. I have a rule, Hankie. If it hasn’t happened, don’t worry about it.”
    Papa Pete has a way of always making you feel better, no matter what’s wrong. Last year when I cut my thumb and had to go to the emergency room to get stitches, he took the doctor’s rubber glove and blew it up into a big balloon and played balloon volleyball with me in the waiting room. Since I could only use my left hand, Papa Pete did the same. How many grandfathers do you know who’d do that?
    Frankie and Ashley came running out the main door, and when they saw me with Papa Pete, they dashed over to us.
    â€œ Zengawii , Zip,” said Frankie. “You disappeared.”
    â€œYeah, and you forgot this,” Ashley said, handing me the thick brown envelope.
    I hate you, brown envelope. Zengawii! Disappear!
    â€œWhat’s in there?” asked Papa Pete. He was busy giving Ashley and Frankie a big pinch on the cheek, which is his way of saying hello.
    â€œPapers from my teacher,” I answered. “Trust me, they’re not going to make my dad very happy.”
    â€œI happen to have just come from your father, and I can tell you this, darling grandson,” Papa Pete said, “he is at this moment a very happy man. And your darling mother, otherwise known as my darling daughter, is also a very happy girl.”
    â€œPapa Pete, Mrs. Zipzer’s not a girl,” Ashley giggled. “She’s almost forty years old!”
    â€œTo me, she’ll always be my little girl.” Papa Pete flashed me a smile from under his bushy, black mustache. “Just like you, Hankie, will always be my favorite oldest grandson.”
    â€œBut he’s your only oldest grandson,” Ashley pointed out.
    â€œOh, I hadn’t realized that,” Papa